Twice A Year
On Tuesday we had a storm. Thunder was involved—and a rainbow. Everything you could ask for from a storm, really.
I grew up on thunder. There is a wildness about it that's to love. Around here, it thunders, like, twice a year, though.
Tuesday: I didn't even know it was gonna be THAT kind of storm. It caught me by surprise on an evening dog walk that almost didn't happen. We were feeling lazy but decided to go anyway.
My first step on the sidewalk, the thunder cracked, a few blocks from my house, a rainbow unfolded, and still further on, sun beams pierced the downpour—turning the rain into a kinda shower of light.
I guess what I'm saying here is thank god for dogs and the way their sad droopy eyes coerce you into walking outside when you were inclined to stay in. Outside is, of course, where all the good stuff happens.
Friday Afternoon
I am not extremely wise, but I know enough to know that nothing productive ever happens on Friday afternoon. It's been a long motherfuckin week, and you're always in this addled, noncommittal headspace that isn't conducive to doing any kind of work at all.
My new thing, then, instead of sitting there with my hands hovering over my keyboard, is to launch off on a walkabout.
Because it's good to walk. Walking, like all the other slow things in life, is meditative. As is staring over the precipice of a towering cliff. As is the wind from an oncoming storm. As is the lacework of yellow flowers in the fields. As are the birds slipping through the tall grass and following us with their songs.
Spring Scene
Can you believe we live in a place where all the trees bloom at once and you can look out your front window in the morning to see a yard awash in sun and trees dressed in all manor of color causing petals to fall through the air everywhere like snow and and and .... It's pretty remarkable. The color and the warmth and the light forces a kind of unexpected happiness on you in a way that, maybe, you haven't experienced in a long time.
Favorites 3.26.15
Chilled Sake: Not hard alcohol, but not really wine, either. Crisp, austere ... it's cold but it warms you up.
How It Smelled Yesterday Morning In Portland, Oregon: Damp, really rich, drenched in deep forest mysteries. If you inhaled and closed your eyes, you could see little white flowers and fauns prancing around.
Acupuncture: It doesn't matter why you're getting it. Just let ’em stick you with the tiny needles, and then lay back and sail away on a sea of endorphins. It's dreamy.
Listen Up Phillip: The movie a meaner, angrier Wes Anderson might've made.
Last Week's Report
Last week was a bust—I got sick and did only half the work I was trying to do. Sweat and shivered all of Monday night. Stayed home Tuesday and let my hair turn into nest for small animals. Didn’t care.
In the case that you're concerned, I'm better now, ’cept for a lingering cough. The phlegm—it abides.
In other news, the cherry trees have popped and the sunlight's streaming down all the time and you're always finding yourself in these situations where you're hanging out in your shirt sleeves doing summertime-style shit with cumulonimbus clouds of pale-pink flower petals floating in the trees above you.
